


Detention

by Chya



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-29
Updated: 2006-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 15:31:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chya/pseuds/Chya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets a detention from a school ghost. It's gonna hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detention

**Author's Note:**

> An excuse for gratuitous Dean whumping. No redeeming features whatsoever. Unbeta'd.

"Sam!" Dean called as the ghost of the schoolmaster materialised in front of him, "In here!" He stepped forward, meeting the ghost's calmly stern face with a determined look of his own. And perhaps a bit of eager anticipation at nuking a symbol of the teachers he'd hated so much when he was growing up.

A quick blast of rock salt and Dean was prepared to examine the room, look for any further information on the ghost in the time he had before it regrouped and re-materialised. He was not prepared for the ghost to re-materialise almost instantly behind him. The first he knew was when the shotgun was ripped from his hand.

"Sam!" he called again, spinning to face the ghost and reaching into his jacket to retrieve whatever was to hand. He could see Sam's shadow approaching the door but it slammed shut as his brother arrived and he could hear Sam's pounding and shouts.

The ghost remained calm, merely flicking an arm at Dean, a small movement that had the greater effect of pushing Dean back with an invisible force into the wall, pinning him there and paralysing his limbs.

The ghost glided closer, and without actually touching it, motioned the bottle of holy water Dean had retrieved away, sending it skittering across the floor.

"You are invited to stay," said the ghost with mild amusement. "It is therefore only polite to take off one's coat."

Dean was unable to stop his jacket from sliding off his arms to be carelessly discarded. "Yeah, well I don't accept your invitation, bitch," he spat out as he fought against the ghost's hold. "So give me my jacket back and let me go."

"You don't have a choice, boy. And this is in the way, I think it can go, too."

"Hey!" Dean protested against his shirt sliding off, leaving him in the cold house with just his thin tee. "You're not getting my pants, you pervert!" Not that he would be able to stop the ghost, but he needed to make his objections heard and perhaps give Sam information he could use.

The ghost smiled humourlessly as the straps holding Dean's normally hidden weapons undid themselves and fell to the floor. "Unlike some of my esteemed colleagues, I have no interest in seeking sinful gratification with little boys."

"Aw shucks and here I thought we were going to be such good friends." The sarcasm rolled off Dean's tongue as he tried to find a way out of this mess. "So what, you're just going to throw me off the cliff to get your jollies? Or maybe a sweet piece of hanging? I'd prefer a bullet to the brain myself."

The ghost looked pityingly at Dean. "You are here because you've been bad. My role in this institution is to take recalcitrant boys such as you and teach them the error of their ways, punishing them for all the wrongs they have wrought. Unfortunately, some boys cannot live with the guilt of what they have done and the small punishments that I administer are insufficient to assuage that guilt.

"With a little help, I'm sure. So, do you have any particular wrongs in mind? Just to check we're on the same page and all?"

The ghost's mild countenance became cruel then. "I see you have many things that need addressing, boy. I do believe that this will be a very long detention."

The wall that Dean was pinned against suddenly moved and he found himself tumbling down a set of stairs with a yell.

XXXXX

Sam had only time for a quick glimpse of the ghost before the door slammed shut in his face. The spirit looked exactly like the illustrations they'd found in the library; a tall, thin, ascetic man with a certain cruelty about him, dressed impeccably in a mid nineteenth century black suit.

He tried to open the door, attempting to use his shoulder first, before taking trying to kick it in, which didn't quite work as well with his sneakers as it did with his brother's heavy boots. Calling out to Dean as he worked, mentally recording every word he could make out, Sam took the bullet filled pistol from the back of his jeans and tried to shoot the lock out.

When the door still failed to open, Sam considered running outside to see if he could gain entrance to the room through the window; it was after all on the ground floor, but before he could take more than a couple steps, Dean gave a startled cry and the door gave a quiet click as it gently swung open.

Shotgun poised to fire, Sam nudged the door open further and slid inside scanning for any activity in the room at all. It soon became apparent that there was absolutely none.

A pile of fabrics in one corner turned out to be Dean's shirt and jacket and probably most of his armoury, but of the man himself there was no sign. Sam called Dean's name, hoping but not expecting to hear anything in return as he examined the window. The catch had long since rusted shut and the window didn't seem to have been opened in decades.

If Dean hadn't left by the door or the window, then logically there must be some other egress from the room because unlike demons, ghosts could not transport anything solid through other solid objects. The EMF Meter was as silent as it had been when they had swept the building the previous morning, although Sam's camera thankfully didn't pick up any blood.

Searching the entire building and going back to search that room again, Sam did not give up looking for his brother until well past daybreak.

XXXXX

Only when the ghost had Dean where he wanted him, did Dean regain the use of his limbs. From the stairs he'd fallen down and the bumps and bruises he'd sustained marking every step, he was in a small sub basement with one other door aside from the entrance which was marked Water Closet.

The room was bare with just two desks and chairs facing each other. One was a heavy plain wooden table upon which lay bright against the dark wood, a heavy pale cane. The desk to which Dean was bound was an old fashioned tilted writing desk, complete with paper and pencil. Dean himself was seated on a stool before the desk, his ankles tied to the desks front legs and his left wrist tied over the top of the desk to the rear left leg. Shaking out the residual numbness after his fall from his free right hand, and with no sign of the ghost, Dean immediately set about pulling the knot at his right ankle free.

A loud crack made Dean jump an instant before sharp pain shot up his left arm. "Son of a bitch!" he tried to pull his abused hand towards him, but the rope prevented it. The cane came down again and Dean tried to block it with his right which met an invisible wall before it ever got close, and the cane hit the back of his left hand a couple of inches back from the first strike that already had his fingers already swelling.

"Jesus H! What th-!" And the cane came down again on his wrist, just behind the rope that bit into the flesh as he pulled harder against it, trying in vain to grasp the cane, the ghost, anything. "Bitch! Your ass is mine, I'll - !"

"Stop." The ghost was calm, yet commanding. "Unless you wish me to continue."

Leaning forward, his right hand trying to cradle his violently throbbing left, Dean bit back the abuse he wanted to hurl at the ghost, clenching his jaw with a grunt. He needed to learn about the ghost and find a way to finish it.

"You see?" said the ghost pacing between the desks. "You have remarkable self-control when you apply yourself. Now, boy, can you tell me why you deserved those three strokes?"

Not trusting himself to unclench his jaw, Dean shook his head. Instantly another crack reverberated round the room, and Dean was on his feet again over the desk, his adrenaline spiking as he tried to protect his abused arm. Except this time there was no blast of pain. The cane had simply hit the desk.

"I see we must establish the rules that I will enforce whilst you remain in this room. The first strike was for attempting to free yourself. You must realise that you deserve to be here. If you had not been so wicked, you would not be here. You will be freed when your lesson is learnt boy, and not a moment before. Is that clear?"

"Sure, whatever rocks your boat, man," Dean ground out, his hatred for this ghost already rocketing. Another loud crack as the cane hit the desk made him jump.

"Respect, boy. You will show me respect at all times. You will not use expletives, you will not speak out of turn, and you will address me as 'Sir'. Do you think you could manage all that?"

Dean rolled his eyes, but figured that he had to play the game for now at least. "Gonna be a tough one, but I'll give it my best shot. Sir," he said, though he couldn't prevent the insolence in his tone.

The ghost nodded slightly. "And will your best even come close to being good enough, I wonder?" he looked at Dean speculatively. "Still, do you know your Ten Commandments, boy?"

"Yes sir!" Dean grinned, thinking that the ghost probably wouldn't appreciate the reasoning behind John's lessons to his sons in theological and mythological texts.

"Stop!" the ghost said as Dean started to recite them. "I did not request a demonstration. You have been struck for blasphemy, and I will not hesitate to strike you again if you should blaspheme again. This rule applies to any of the first four Commandments. And I think, for your lesson, we shall examine the other six as they relate to you."

"Ah, this is such crap." Dean muttered, and the loud crack only made him flinch this time, right before the wave of pain hit him from where the cane had hit further up his forearm.

XXXXX

Sam grimaced as he swallowed coffee stronger than he would normally have liked and tried to concentrate on reviewing the research he and Dean had done before trying to take Jacob Grey's spirit on.

Everything they'd found in the library simply confirmed the pattern Dean had spotted in local newspapers. It should have been a simple haunting; find, salt and burn the bones and be back to town for dinner. All they'd had to do was find the bones and without a grave to dig up, it was most likely that Jacob's bones were in the vicinity of the house.

A daylight visit hadn't turned anything up so they'd figured a nighttime visit might, when supernatural activity tended to be at it's most energetic.

Jacob Grey had been a master at the small school that had once been situated where a rambling house now stood. The house had been built in the 1920's over the remains of the school, which had fallen into disrepair, parts of the walls incorporated into the newer building. There was no record of any activity until the 1970's when the first suicide had occurred. Over the next thirty years there were several suicides, always men, although not every man that visited or lived there, and there didn't seem to be any commonality between those that died, with differing ages, backgrounds, circumstances, even different methods of suicide.

In the mid nineties there was the suspicion of a serial killer in the area when an intelligent police detective decided that the suicide rate for that one building was just too high, and among other things, compared the autopsies that had taken place. The detective had found it notable that some of the men had had some kind of altercation with a blunt instrument in the hours preceding their deaths. Different upper limbs and to differing extents, but several were postulated to have been inflicted by a heavy stick or baton.

The legends that surrounded Jacob himself were vague at best. There was no record of his death or when he left the school, although the school closed in 1882 after families withdrew their boys from the school following an unspecified scandal that was rumoured to have involved another master and the youngest son of a local businessman.

Jacob was known as the schoolmaster that the boys all loved to hate, and it was possibly this that spawned the legend that Jacob had never left, although again, there was no trace of his movements when the school closed.

There had to be something that they'd missed, something that would tell Sam how to get his brother back. He glanced at his watch and noted that the library would be open very shortly.

XXXXX

Dean looked at the four swollen and bruised red welts, and reckoned that another four would take him up to the elbow. These weren't the stinging red stripes he'd gotten from teachers in high school who were a bit handy with a ruler, the kind that disappeared after five minutes so that the kids couldn't scream abuse. Here, he couldn't bend his fingers at all, and the thin skin over bone was split, decorating crimson over the angry red, blue and black bruising that was already mottling the skin from fingertips to mid forearm.

The ghost had let him be for a while, ostensibly so that Dean could think about his crimes, but Dean hoped it was because Sam was causing the ghost grief. He'd tried yelling for Sam, making noise for his brother to hear, but gave up after realising the slightly muffled sound quality meant that little or no noise would be heard outside the room.

Cautiously, and watching that cane which rested on the other desk, he reached towards the rope at his ankle. The instant his fingers touched the coarse twine, the cane slammed down on his forearm, moving from the desk in less than the blink of an eye.

"Are we ready to begin, boy?" the re-materialised ghost enquired civilly as Dean battled to swallow words and cries of pain, blinking to clear his vision of the lightning, stars and dark shadows that the pain smashed into it. His arm throbbed unmercifully now, threatening to rob him of concentration and self-control.

He took a deep breath and sat back, willing the pain to a distance where he could handle it. Distancing himself from pain was something he was good at, and he ruthlessly pushed it away. "Any time you want to bring it on, big guy," he said and then amended insolently. "I mean, yes sir."

The ghost did not look impressed. "I have always found lines to be an effective method of remedial education. Enough repetition is educational. More than enough can create belief. You may leave this room when you have completed one thousand lines."

"Is that it?" Dean said, not seeing the catch. "You want me to write lines and then I can leave? Sir."

"Yes. We will analyse your lines as we go, administer punishment where necessary, and may even change them appropriately."

"Huh." Dean now saw the catch. "I'm never going to get to one thousand, am I? Sir."

The ghost looked offended. "You will only fail if you want to fail, boy. Behave, be honest and accept, that's all you have to do to complete your detention."

"Right," Den smirked, thinking that this was all just bull. "So what do I get to write? Sir."

A neat script appeared at the top of the paper on Dean's desk.

"'I deserve to be punished'? No way, man! This whole gig is just shi-"

Crack! Dean stopped breathing as the cane slammed into his arm, the wave of agony paralysing his chest as his vision darkened and he listened to the blood rushing past his ears. Agony subsided to pain and as he gulped air, Dean thought bone might have cracked that time.

"Would you like to rethink your attitude, boy?" the ghost asked mildly.

Not really, Dean thought, I'd rather do something nasty with that cane. But self-preservation at this point was the only option he could consider. He had to keep going until Sam arrived and they could take this bitch down together, because if he didn't the ghost would keep hurting and killing people, and that just wasn't an option he wanted to consider. "I'll try better next time," he muttered, picking up the pencil. "Sir."

Petulantly, he stabbed the pencil at the parchment, petty satisfaction making him grin as the point snapped. He was about to point out that he broke his pencil when he noticed that another lay in the exact same spot as the first. He looked up at the ghost who looked back with a raised eyebrow and a smirk of his own. 'Bitch,' he mouthed silently, and scrawled the first line.

Crack!

"What!" Dean yelled in lieu of a scream, throwing the pencil across the room in pained frustration. "I didn't do anything," he gasped. "Sir," he remembered belatedly.

"I will not accept this ungodly mess as script," the ghost told him. "Take pride in your work."

The pencil was back on the desk, and when the pain had receded enough he started writing as neatly as his handwriting would allow.

Crack! No pain, just the desk after he'd completed ten lines.

"Why are you here?" the ghost asked, and Dean bit back the sarcastic comment he wanted to make. The cane was resting on the sheet of paper, and Dean curled his lip in disgust.

"Because I deserve to be," he muttered. "Apparently."

The ghost pushed his face close to Dean's. "Because you deserve to be what?"

"Punished," Dean spat out angrily, pushing his face back into the ghost's, a small surge of triumph pushing back the pain in his arm and the frustration that was growing.

The ghost stepped back, the cane came down again and Dean yelped. "Bitch!" The cane hit the desk, and dazedly, Dean realised that there was no more space to hit on his forearm and he grinned. "So what's next," he gasped. "The other arm? Can't write if you do that."

The ghost returned the smile, and Dean found his arm turned face up, cord whipping up to wrap around the base of his fingers to hold his hand open. And the cane came down across his fingers, white lightning spat across his eyeballs and the world went black.

He was only out for a few seconds, his brain short-circuited with the pain and he became quickly aware that something had definitely broken this time. He blinked back the water in his eyes and tried to calm his breathing.

"Respect," the ghost told him. "At all times. You may continue writing."

The next time the cane came down on the desk at twenty lines, the ghost asked the same question, and Dean replied in a voice full of venom, "Because I deserve to be punished. Sir."

"Good boy," the ghost looked genuinely satisfied. "Continue."

Every ten lines the cane came down and the same question was asked, the same answer given.

At one hundred lines he was humming Highway To Hell.

At one hundred and fifty he was thinking of all the petty things he'd done to earn a visit to the principle's office in school. Itching powder had to be up there, he smiled to himself, and superglue.

At two hundred his writing hand was cramping and he was planning on ways to make the ghost's banishment as protracted and painful as possible.

At two hundred and fifty, 'I deserve to be punished' was burned into his retinas and brain and at three hundred Dean thought that he might actually get through this.

At three hundred and fifty, he was starting to accept the words as truth as his brain focussed solely on his task.

Crack! The cane coming down didn't even cause him to flinch. "Four hundred lines, boy. That wasn't so difficult now was it?"

Dean shook out his cramped hand. "No, sir," he said with a half smirk, mind zoned out with just the five words floating there.

"Pay attention, boy!" The cane came down on the desk again, and Dean did flinch this time. "Why are you here?"

"Because I deserve to be punished," he said automatically.

"Yes. You do. Many people have had cause to punish you, haven't they?"

Dean winced as his thoughts skittered over memories he'd long since buried.

The cane hit the desk. "Haven't they?" the ghost repeated.

"If you say so. Sir." Dean slumped back as best he could, pulling on his damaged arm, but needing more to distance himself from the ghost and his words. The physical he could deal with, but he was absolutely not going to get into the psychological.

The ghost inclined his head slightly. "I can see that I'm going to have to lay things out for you," he said and paused to think. "Juvenile Detention, what is that?"

Dean blinked. "Detention for juveniles. Sir."

"Your thoughts run more to a prison, boy. For children?"

Dean shifted uncomfortably. The ghost apparently had access to his mind, and he really did not want some of those memories being dredged up.

"Yeah." There was a long silence as Dean refused to look at the ghost, but eventually he took a quick glance to see what was happening. The ghost held the cane ready above his arm, looking at him expectantly. "Sir," he ground out, eyes back to the desk.

"And what were you imprisoned for, boy?"

There were many permutations and combinations, but it all boiled down to one thing. "Stealing, sir."

"You stole from other people," the ghost said, "and were imprisoned twice for it."

"Yes, sir." Dean focussed on a small knot in the wood of the desk, disassociating himself from the conversation, and wishing the ghost would let him get back to writing lines. He swallowed hard as he struggled to push those memories back down where they belonged.

"And did you learn your lesson?"

"Oh, you can bet your ass I did. Sir." Dean's lips twitched at that. The second time around he learned the hard way that he never, ever wanted to go back to one of those places.

"And what did you learn?"

"Never to get caught. Sir." He smiled cheekily at the ghost and tensed as he fully expected the cane to come down on his arm.

"Then you learned nothing," the ghost said. "Thou shalt not steal. You deserve to be punished."

Dean stared at the ghost, daring him. "Been there, done that, got the scars." He paused a beat. "Sir."

"Say it."

"Wha-? Like hell!" The cane came down straight across the palm of his hand, but the pain of it was not nearly as great as the reflexive attempt to clench his bruised and broken fingers into a protective fist, which left him reeling and biting his own tongue until it bled, in his efforts not to cry out.

"Say what you have written."

"I deserve to be punished," Dean spat at him, "and so do you, you sadist son of a bi-!" The cane hit him with some force straight across the shoulders, leaving him gasping for breath.

"Thou shalt not steal!" the ghost cried angrily as the cane fell again.

XXXXX

Twice more the ghost repeated the words and swung the cane.

As the blows fell, Dean tried to curl into to himself again disassociating himself from what was happening. He'd been hurt far worse, although the swelling and bruising would be a bitch in a couple of days. He hoped that Sam got a move on, because he wasn't certain how much more it would take before this ghost completely lost it and killed him.

"Repeat the commandment," the ghost ordered. "Thou shalt not steal, and you deserve this punishment. Say it!"

Rolling his aching shoulders with a groan, Dean glared at the ghost through narrowed eyes and obeyed, spitting each word out. "Thou shalt not steal. I deserve to be punished."

The ghost glared back, but seemed satisfied enough. He gestured at the desk. "Continue and speak every line that you write."

Wincing as he bent over the desk, Dean picked up the pencil and continued where he'd left off, saying every line. With no cane crashing down every ten lines, it made him jump when he got to five hundred.

The ghost smiled at him. "You may take a break," the ghost told him, as the ropes untied themselves and fell away. "You may use the facility, but otherwise you may not leave this room. Use the time wisely boy, for your detention has barely begun."

That ghost disappeared and Dean reflected that that did not sound good. At five hundred lines, he'd kinda hoped he was half way through..

Stretching carefully, he stood up stiffly and, cradling his sore arm, walked about the room, examining the walls carefully. He took advantage of the bathroom even though it was apparent that it had ceased to function many years previously, and went back to methodically examining the room.

It was clear to him that this room was the power base for the ghost, given that the ghost had more powers than a spirit like that had any right to, in which case there had to be something of significance here; quite probably the missing bones.

Unable to find so much as kiddie graffitti, Dean tried the door that led out of the room, but it didn't budge. Not that he'd expected it to, but he had to try out of principle. He was tempted to try and break it down, but decided that would likely draw the ghost's attention back to him, and he didn't want to do that just yet, because with no way to destroy the ghost, he wasn't likely to get out in one piece. Maybe if he got bored before the ghost came back.

Having scoured the main room, he checked out the water closet again, not really expecing to find anyhing. Except that there was a single curb high step up. He'd assumed initially that it was either uneven flooring or a place to put the plumbing, but the main room was solid wood over packed dirt, while the water closet floor echoed. What if the hollow floorboards hid something else?

The boards were old and riddled with woodworm, but bruised as he was, Dean didn't consider lifting the boards, settling instead for using his full weight to heel kick at a weak board in the corner. The board splintered and broke, throwing him slightly off balance, but he got a glimpse of blackened bone before an unseen force dragged him out of the tiny room and crashing into the wall opposite.

Landing at the base of the wall, he looked up, trying to stop the room from spinning as he saw the cane coming at his unprotected head. Instinctively he threw up his left arm to protect it, but missed, the cane veering away and slamming into his shoulder instead, numbing the entire limb. As the ghost drew the cane back, Dean tried to roll himself into the ghost's legs, but they were insubstantial and he kept rolling, his good hand covering the back of his head while letting his back and ribs take the brunt of the attack.

Fortunately, the ghost seemed to think three vicious strokes was enough and Dean found himself dragged back to his stool, the ropes once again snaking out to hold him in place as he was before.

"Respect!" hissed the ghost as he lay across the desk, panting heavily and trying to get his spinning head back under some kind of control. "You have shown me exactly how far off the path you are boy, desecrating my grave with your destructive actions! How would you like it if someone were to start destroying your mother's grave like that? Hm?"

Dean didn't say anything, but turned his face into the desk, too flaming hot angry to say anything, and in too much pain to do anything. He hadn't visited Mary Winchester's grave in over twenty years, but the thought of anyone doing to her what he did on a daily basis to others was unthinkable. Unlike this ghost, she'd never hurt anyone. Abandoned, yes, but never hurt. And it wasn't the same thing. At all.

The ghost was taunting him with his parents lack of love towards such a wayward child, the one having abandoned him so young, the other abandoning him later on, but he tuned the ghost out, taking stock of his injuries. He couldn't feel his arm at all and by the grinding agony in his shoulder, he probably wouldn't until his shoulder was relocated back where it belonged. His right eye felt gummy, and red smeared the paper he was resting on, a souvenir no doubt of his head meeting the wall. The ribs on the right hand side felt bruised, informing him of their displeasure with each breath, but he'd had worse. Probably.

"It pleases me to see, however, that despite your parents disregard for your wilful ways, you have been rightfully obedient and respectful to them. The only Commandment I think, that you are careful to obey, and one I will not punish you for."

That wasn't how it was at all, but Dean continued to try and block the ghost's words out. He wasn't going to win here, and he'd had enough of trying.

The ghost was not going to be ignored though and spoke calmly now, spectral lips close to his ear. "When you have composed yourself boy, you may continue writing your lines."

Well thank you and drop dead, Dean thought with no intention of doing anything other than staying exactly how he was. He stayed that way for the longest time, his stillness granting him the illusion that his aches and pains had receded, allowing him to hide from reality. He'd done this before, and it served him well, enabling him to shore up his defenses, rebuild walls and get a handle on injuries, both external and internal. He remembered the first time he'd done it too, those months after his mother died, shutting himself off in his own mind until he was strong enough to come out. This situation wasn't that dire yet, but this halfway house between here and there helped him pull himself together.

The ghost broke before he did, clearing his throat and tapping the cane and Dean's short giggle was slightly hysterical at that concept. "Sit up boy," the ghost ordered, slamming the cane on the desk, and Dean giggled again, turning it into a laugh.

"Sit up boy!" the ghost commanded again, and Dean felt the cane hit his forearm, even though there was no sensation other than the slight painful jolt of his shoulder, and he laughed some more.

Feeling bone tired, but ready to take the ghost on again, he sat up with a shit eating grin on his face. "Sam'd find it funny," he said. "Funny that I can out wait a ghost."

"Continue with your lines, boy and we'll discuss your brother."

"Oh, goody, can't wait for that one," Dean smirked, and watched dispassiontly as the cane came down on his forearm. The earlier strike had hit his wrist, the rope that held him vulnerable now sunk viciously into swollen flesh, and this last strike had split skin. Yet all he could feel was a curious faint ache as if his brain was trying to inform him of the pain but wasn't actually receiving the pain signals.

The ghost touched the top of the cane to Dean's chin and pushed his head back, Dean catching hold of the cane with his right hand to stop it pushing too hard. "I see where all your darkness comes from, boy," the ghost said softly, almost pityingly. "You've had to be the strong one all your life, protect your brother at all costs, take care of your father and avenge your mother. I can see a lifetime of your wants and dreams dropped and forgotten by the way or purposefully shattered and broken, all left behind. All of this pushing you off the path of righteousness and into the darkness. All your – "

"Stop!" Dean didn't want to hear the gentle words that were cutting deeper than any knife could, didn't want to chance any possibility of having to face any real, long denied truths. The cane dropped away and he swallowed hard, not caring what the ghost thought. "You're right, I'm bad. I deserve to be punished." He picked up the pencil and started writing.

XXXXX

As always, it was in the details that Sam finally found a lead. The first suicide in 1973 was a Don Taylor and as a well thought of local resident, there were obituaries for him in several papers and it was whilst scouring these that the librarian who had been assisting him pointed to a photograph of the family taken a few weeks before Don's death.

"I recognise her, that's Ann Miller," the librarian said pointing to a smiling teenage girl crouched next to a toddler. "Of course she wasn't married then. She must have been a babysitter for the Taylor's, maybe she could help? She only lives across town."

Sam scribbled down the address the librarian gave him and thanked her with a smile before virtually running out of the building to the car.

XXXXX

'I deserve to be punished .'

Crack! Dean was startled but not surprised when the cane cracked down at 600 lines, interrupting his self-hypnotic litany.

"So boy, your brother. Tell me about him. Or shall I tell you?"

"Suit yourself. Sir." Dean said flatly, his focus aimed steadily at the top edge of the desk.

"Describe him to me."

"He's an asshole and a jerk and has no respect for family."

"And yet he's everything you wanted to be."

Closing his eyes against the ghost, Dean shook his head slightly, but the ghost continued.

"He managed to create his own life, to escape the darkness that you can't. He has dreams and ambitions and holds on tightly to them. You have nothing, and you are guilty of coveting everything your brother has."

"No!" Dean arched into the desk with a sharp cry as the cane hit his lower back, twice in rapid succession.

"You deserve nothing. You deserve to be punished. Say it."

Dean was getting so sick and tired of this, and he wasn't going to win. He needed to bide his time, wait for Sammy to haul his ass out of there, and then he could take out his anger and frustration and pain on something that he could destroy.

"I deserve nothing except to be punished. Sir," he muttered picking up the pencil and getting back to writing.

"Wait, boy. Adjust your lines to the startement you just made."

"What?" Dean wasn't certain he understood correctly. "You want me to write 'I deserve nothing. I deserve to be punished,' now?"

"No, boy." The ghost tilted his head speculatively. "Your words were so much better."

That's what Dean had thought he'd said and triedto recall. "Uh… 'I deserve nothing but punishment'?"

"Just so, boy," the ghost nodded. "And don't forget to say it after every line."

Dean rolled his eyes but did as instructed.

At six hundred and forty two lines, Dean rubbed absently at his dislocated shoulder, and something clicked, perhaps bone moving to free up a trapped nerve. But whatever it was, the uncomfortable numbness in his battered arm was swept away in wave of indescribable agony that had him reeling in shock. Instinctlively, he tried to pull his arm into him, but the rope holding firm just bit in further, adding insult to injury.

His free hand blindly sought a way to release its trapped counterpart, sending papers and pencil flying randomly as he failed to even get close to the knot over the edge of the desk. He cried out in pain filled rage, scrabbling ineffectively at the rope until he had no more breath and no more energy.

When he could see with some rationality again, Dean saw that the ghost was waiting patiently for him to finish. "You can't punish me for that," he said, wiping the sweat that prickled under his eyes.

"I can," said the ghost, "and I will unless you remember to be respectful."

Dean rubbed his eyes and shook his head. "Sir."

"Thank you. And no, I will not punish you for that which you cannot control. Continue when you are ready."

XXXXX

Ann Miller was outgoing and friendly until Sam mentioned Don Taylor, when she clammed up completely.

Sam tried to reassure her that he was not trying to dig up scandals and ruin anyone's life, but she stil refused. It was therefore a pleasant surprise when she called him a little later with a change of heart. Her husband had encouraged her to talk to him, to get her secrets out in the open.

Everyone had been shocked when Don had hung himself. The man had been one of life's optimists, friendly and outgoing, a perfect husband and father. Apart from the part where he was having an affair with the underage Ann, something Ann had never told anyone other than her husband. At sixteen, Ann had threatened to reveal their affair if Don didn't leave his wife for her, and Don had disappeared the very next day. The following day he'd been found hanging from the bannisters in the basement and Ann had blamed herself, carrying her secret alone until she'd met her husband.

She burst into tears at this point, and her husband silently begged Sam to leave. In other circumstances, he might have, but his brother's life was at stake here.

"What basement?" he asked her.

"Don had discovered the old school basement on some maps of the property and was extending part of the house to cover it. He'd just about finished building the steps down there when, when-" Ann broke down again, and this time Sam did leave.

XXXXX

At seven hundred lines, the cane did not come down and there was a pregnant pause as Dean hesitated, fully expecting it to.

Instead, the ghost asked, "did you covet your brother's bride to be?"

Dean blinked at that. "No," he said, "I mean she was cute and all, but she was Sammy's girl and she's dead now, so don't got there. Sir. Please. Whatever."

"What about other mens' wives?"

Unable to stop the genuine grin as he recalled some of his more fly-by-night conquests, Dean said. "We-ell, now you come to mention it –"

He didn't feel the crash of the cane onto his arm, his brain blowing a fuse and blanking out completely. He came to a short while later with his arm on fire, blinking back tears of pain. "Son of a bitch," he muttered, and this time as the cane fell, he felt the pain in all it's technicolour glory. Eventually sound and vision calmed down enough that he could hear what the ghost was saying.

"I have no doubt that you would commit adultery were any of the fairer sex agree to give her hand to you in marriage, but they have not. It is no laughing matter that you have seduced women into committing adultery themselves, but I cannot punish you for their weakness of will. Continue."

XXXXX

After some fast talking at the realtors office that Dean would have been proud of, Sam emerged with copies of the plans to the house. There was no basement, only the extension which contained the room where Dean disappeared, but Sam had not expected the basement to be on those plans. Going back to the library, however, and using the original walls as guidelines, Sam was able compare the newer house against illustrations of the old school building and find where the staircase should be.

He would take a pickaxe to the wall if he needed to, but running out of leads and probably running out of time, Sam was clutching at any straws he could.

Whilst he was comparing the drawings, the helpful librarian brought a handful of musty old books. She'd borrowed them from the adjacent museum who in turn had been given them decades before from a previous occupier of the house. They turned out to be ledgers from the schoolhouse. Boys that had passed through, monies that had changed hands, teachers hired and fired and even notations against some of the boys names where they'd gone onto greater things, settled down locally or in one case ended up on death row.

Interestingly, there was a heavy notation underlined in thick faded black ink, against one of the very last pupils at the school, certainly in the last class listed. Lucas Ash, at the age of twelve was deceased just a few days before the school closed down. What made the notation especially interesting was the corresponding notation in the teacher's ledger against Jacob Grey. Deceased by his own hand, and just a day after Lucas Ash.

But the question still remained, where were Jacob's bones?

XXXXX

'I deserve nothing but punishment' was rapidly becoming Dean's lifeline, the only thing that gave him focus to keep going until the cavalry arrived.

At eight hundred lines he could feel abused muscles stiffening up, those around his ribs making it awkward to breath properly, and his bruised spine making sitting on the backless stool a torture.

The cane smacked the desk to get his attention. "We have two more areas to cover," the ghost told him. "And then all this will be over and you can leave."

Dean wondered if that was such a good idea before Sam arrived. "I'll be dead then, or as good as," he told the ghost.

The ghost shook his head. "Only if it is by your own hand, boy. I deliver punishment, not execution. You will be well disciplined when you leave here, but still among the living and breathing."

"Huh," Dean quirked his lips in weary acceptance. "Bring it on, dude."

"To ask you if you are liar would be pointless," the ghost said. "For while an honest man would say no, because he is honest, a liar will also say no, because he is not."

"I say yes," Dean told him bluntly. "I am a liar, I've lied about most things most of my life. Deal."

"Honesty from a self-confessed born liar?" The ghost seemed taken aback. "How… refreshing." Hesitating a moment the ghost continued. "I was looking forward to cataloguing all the lies, the webs of lies you have created, as well as your own self-delusions, but it seems that you know what you are."

"Can't mistake what's in the mirror every morning," Dean sneered.

"No doubt," the ghost replied softly. "What should I do about it, do you think?"

"I deserve nothing but punishment," Dean met the ghost's eyes, and then leaned forward over the desk, grasping the top edge with his good hand. "Knock yourself out. Sir."

Four blows from the cane, that were strangely not as vicious as those previously inflicted, were spaced evenly down his back and the ghost informed Dean that he was through. "Why the lies and deceptions?" the ghost asked thoughtfully.

Once his harsh breathing was back under control, Dean shrugged and winced against the tightness of his sore back. "It's just the way it is. People don't like truths they don't understand."

The ghost contemplated the idea before tutting in distaste. "Continue, boy."

XXXXX

With no record of his passing other than the notation in the ledger, Sam decided that it was afair bet that Jacob's resting place was in the old school house, and with the opening up of the basement in 1973, Don Taylor had inadvertantly let the spirit out.

But why did it only attack some men, but not others? Why had it shut Sam out? Jacob was the evil schoolmaster the kids loved to hate according to his research, and his own far more recent recollections of school was that those teachers you hated as a kid, were the ones who were the scrictest.

He needed to find out more about Lucas, what sort of boy he was and what could possibly have happened to him.

There were no obituaries for Lucas Ash, no record of his passing other than a small plain marker in the graveyard, and Sam considered digging his bones up, but decided against it for the moment. The ghost he'd seen was an adult, not a child and exhuming the body just to see if he could work out what the boy had died of seemed too ghoulish.

Lucas would have to remain a mystery for now.

XXXXX

'I deserve nothing but punishment', was burned irrevocably into Dean's brain when the cane slid across the paper at nine hundred lines.

"You are a murderer."

Dean swallowed hard and shrugged. "No, not really." This was one discussion he really didn't want. "I kill. I'm not a murderer."

"I beg to differ, boy," the ghost said, his voice stil soft, with with a distinct underlying menace. "I can see there are many things that you have... exterminated, and it is not to those that I refer."

"I know," Dean swallowed again. "You mean little Katie May." The ghost said nothing, and Dean couldn't help but draw in on himself. "That was an accident." He winced at his own words, knowing that her death may well have been an accident, but it was completely his fault.

"I can see that in your heart you believe yourself responsible for her death, and perhaps in part you are," the ghost agreed. "But I can also see that your head knows that there was no other course of action you could have taken. Accidents are part of life and it is not to her that I refer."

"What?" Dean looked up, his mind drawing a complete blank. Unless he meant those that he'd failed to save; but while he felt guilty as hell about those, there was no way any of those could be considered murder. "I don't understand."

"Yes you do, boy. Your subconcious mind is screaming your guilt to me. Are your self-delusions really so tightly woven and twisted that you cannot hear it?"

Here it comes, thought Dean, the real reason we're here. Probablyt the dead guy was projecting his own guilt on to Dean.

"Johnathon Howes," said the ghost.

Or not, thought Dean although he still wasn't quite getting it.

"Deborah Isaacs, Michael Allinson and the Reverand Johnathon Masters. There are probably more, but those are the ones you know you murdered."

"I did not!" Dean protested hotly, "they were conjuring up demons and spirits and killing people. They got what was coming to them!"

Crack! The cane came down on Dean's arm and between pain filled gulping breaths he noticed that there was was only space for one more strike of the cane inside his elbow.

"Like the Reverand LeGrange? Or the Reverand Sorenson?" the ghost hissed. "Both nearly murdered by you in a moment of erroneous judegment. You murdered people that you could never know for certain had done the things you claimed."

"I stopped them from killing!" Dean shouted, knowing in his gut that he hadn't been wrong about any of those he'd killed; he'd simply lacked the hard evidence.

"Perhaps the real culprits moved elsewhere, fearful that you may actually catch them, so you would never know," the ghost said, voicing Dean's own doubts, long ignored. "Are you any better than any of those people you killed? Is there someone hunting you? Perhaps a son or daughter determined to destroy a serial murderer?"

"I did what I had to," Dean said softly. "That's all."

"Very well."

The cane came crashing down on Dean's back and didn't stop until he'd passed out.

XXXXX

As he prepared his weaponry, Sam's gut gurgled and he realised that he hadn't eaten all day. Just the thought of food clashed with the overdose of caffeine and adrenaline that was running through his system and made him slightly nauseous. He didn't have time for niceties, food and sleep being at the bottom of his list of priorities. If Dean had been with him, they'd have been sure to at least cat nap and fill up with chips, each making sure the other was up to getting the job done.

Right now, Sam knew he was running on the edge, but this was his brother and as much of a pain in the ass Dean was, Sam would not lose him without one hell of a fight. He'd fought for Dean even when his brother had given up on himself before, and he'd do it again. And he wouldn't think about Endicott.

Loading up the car, Sam jumped in and pulled away from the motel.

XXXXX

Dean had lost any concept of of time, and swimming up out of the darkness that that he'd fallen into, he found himself still in the same position, lying over the desk. With a deep groan he pulled himself upright, feeling every bruise and welt complain.

"Finish your lines boy, and you're free to leave this place," the ghost said, not unkindly, as he carefully placed the cane on the desk. The door to the room opened, the freedom it offered, tantalisingly out of reach bound as he was, not that he was entirely certain that he could make those few steps that would take him out here. "I need not tell you that you should never return to this place unless you want another detention, I'm sure."

Dazed, Dean licked his dry lips and picked up the pencil.

"We should change these last few lines," the ghost said gently, and a script appeared at the top of the next page. 'I deserve nothing but punishment and death.' "An appropriate extension from our last discussion don't you think?"

"Whatever rocks your boat," Dean muttered, and started the last hundred, repeating every line. 'I deserve nothing but punishment and death.'

XXXXX

Back where this all started, Sam swung the mallet at the wall where he thought the staircase to the basement should be. After just a couple of hits he could see where the edge of the door to the basement was, where the warping wood bent back from the flat lintel in protest.

Dropping the mallet, Sam felt along the edge with his fingers, pausing as a faint murmuring reached his ears. He called Dean's name but heard no response, just the constant murmuring. Frustrated and worried, Sam gave up trying to open the door and picked up the mallet once more.

When the door caved in Sam took the steps revealed two at a time, mallet at the ready as he recognised Dean's voice even though the words indistinguishable. He swung at the bottom door, the old wood cracking easily this time, and he dropped the mallet in favour of the shotgun. He absolutely was not going to be shut out again.

A quick glance showed him the situation, Dean at one desk, Jacob standing by the other.

"What happened to Lucas Ash?" Sam asked as he aimed the shotgun at the ghost. Jacob halted the hand that he had raised to do something, blast him backwards, shut the broken door, or whatever the spirit wanted to do.

"It was an accident," the ghost told him simply. "Lucas was a wicked child who would not be redeemed." He raised his hand again, but this time Sam shot him with the rock salt.

XXXXX

At nine hundred and fifty lines, Dean heard a crashing very far away.

At nine hundred and sixty lines he heard footsteps.

At nine hundred and seventy lines he heard Sam calling his name.

At nine hundred and seventy five lines, he heard the shotgun blast.

At nine hundred and seventy eight lines he felt Sam right next to him, calling his name. "I have to finish this," he told Sam, "the bones are in the bathroom."

At nine hundred and eighty lines he heard the boards being ripped up.

At nine hundred and ninety five lines he smelled gasoline and sulphur.

At nine hundred and ninety nine lines he stopped and looked up, working to focus eyes that just wanted to close altogether.

The ghost was standing over him with the cane. "Finish, boy, and you can leave this place."

Dean just stared at him, seeing movement in the corner of his eye as Sam approached. "I'm gonna kick your ass first, bitch," he suddenly spat, and the cane came down.

Only to be stopped by Dean's writing hand, catching and gripping it firmly. No force restricting his movements now, the ghosts power diminished with the burning of his bones. The impact stung his palm, but this was the final line and Dean was going to win come hell or high water.

Another blast of rock salt and the ghost disappeared momentarily, releasing the cane. He reappeared next to the other desk. "Finish it, boy," the ghost said, and Dean nodded his agreement slowly as Sam cut through one of the ropes binding his right ankle before moving around to free the left.

Dean looked at the healthy, unblemished skin at his inside left elbow. He'd taken eight strokes on the outside, seven on the inside. Gritting his teeth, he brought the cane down as hard as he could on the one unblemished spot, Sam's cry of dismay fading out and back in as he struggled not to faint.

The ghost was looking at him with pity mixed with understanding. "For Katie," said the ghost.

Maybe, Dean thought, but he said instead, "Or for me." Jamming the bottom of the cane against his left boot, he stood up and pushed on it with the other until the cane snapped. The ghost smiled at him and whispered in a voice filled with relief, "finally my punishment is done" before dissipating.

Dean sat back down heavily as Sam freed his left arm, leaving the rope that was so deeply embedded in the swollen flesh it would need to be removed professionally. Picking up the pencil, he wrote the last line and spoke it out loud.

"'I deserve nothing but punishment and death.'"

Sam was calling his name again, the concern in his voice urgent now. "Dean, talk to me, you don't really believe this do you? Dean come on, you're scaring me, man."

Dean couldn't look at Sam for a moment. He had nothing, knew he was destined for hell already, and death would likely claim him sooner rather than later, but Sam needed reassurance. He dredged up his best smile and looked at his brother through tired eyes. "This?" he pushed lethargically at the sheets of paper. "All bull. Took your time getting here, didn't you dude, I nearly had to rescue myself."

"Why you?" Sam asked as he helped Dean stand, looking relieved when his brother tried to brush him off. "Why not me? What's your connection to all the others?"

"Down, boy," Dean said, steadying himself with the desk. Once he'd regained his equilibrium, he answered as best he could without giving too much away. He'd already given too much up to the ghost, no way was he giving up anything to anyone else, not even his little brother. "Because I'm a badass, bro and you're just too good," Dean couldn't help that just a little bit of bitterness crept into his voice.

Sam didn't look convinced. "You sure you're all right?"

"I hope that's a rhetorical question, Sammy, 'cause I know I look shit."

Sam smiled slightly. "You know what I mean. We can fix all this Dean, but are you okay?"

"Whatever," Dean smirked, pulling his damaged arm carefully to him and doubtfully eying up the mountainous climb that was the stairs. "I'm always all right."

XXXXX

Sam watched Dean struggle out of the passenger side of the car, practically willing his impossibly stubborn older sibling to fall over so that he could prove his point. Dean should have stayed in the hospital overnight. The insurance would have been good that long at least, but Dean absolutely refused to see the point in staying one second longer than he had to.

With a cast and finger splints immobilising his left arm and hand, and the shallow breaths he was forced to take until the bruising and cracks in his ribs receded and healed, Dean's independence was somewhat restricted, which of course resulted in the thick headed idiot trying to prove he was in no way incapable of looking after himself.

When Dean failed to fall over and with an 'I told you so' glare made his way over to their assigned motel room, Sam grabbed their bags and locked the car up. He turned towards the motel room in time to see Dean kick the door vciously and winced when he saw the hole his brother's steel tipped boot left in the cheap plywood.

If the door had been a spirit, the scowl Dean was aiming at it would surely have sent it screaming on its way. Sam saw the problem and intended to enjoy dragging an admission out of Dean. With his hands full of bags and having had to put up with his brother's constant grumpy bitching, Sam was not in the mood to make things easy.

"What's up, bro?" he asked brightly. "Thought you couldn't wait to get a shower."

"Yeah well, can't get the cast wet," Dean told him darkly, stepping back to let Sam open the door.

Shaking the bags in his hands slightly, Sam indicated the door with his head. "My hands are full. You going to let us in some time today?" he asked smugly.

"Bitch!" Dean spun away from Sam with a frustrated sigh that ended in a muffled choke and a wince. "You win, Sammy," he snapped. "I can't open the damned door with only one hand. And I am so gonna kick your ass for pointing that out."

"Sure you are, dude," Sam grinned as he dropped the bags and opened the door, the handle and the latch requiring simultaneous maneouvres to open. He was going to tell Dean to lie down and take some more of the painkillers they'd left the hospital with, but he knew that would be the fastest way to make his brother do the exact opposite.

Instead he took out the bits and pieces they'd need from their bags and watched Dean from the corner of his eye, casually putting the meds on the side table nearest Dean's bed. Once his brother had carefully and painfully eased himself out of his jacket, and made a failed attempt to get his boots off, he pushed himself back onto the bed with a grimace. No way was Dean getting back up, so Sam felt safe bitching about doing chores by himself.

"Such a jerk," Dean muttered as he retreived his pills. "Injured person, here," he said more loudly. "Peace and quiet and rest and absolutely no chain yanking by little brothers, I remember that hot nurse specifically said that."

Sam snorted as Dean dry swallowed what seemed to be a random amount of painkillers. "I always thought you were delusional Dean, now I know for sure."

"I'm quite sure that's what she said, Sammy, right after she gave me her number."

"Definitely delusional," Sam laughed, and took himself into the bathroom for a shower. When he was standing under the hot spray, he allowed himself to relax. He hated having to look after Dean as much Dean hated to be looked after. He always felt out of his depth, and it just plain felt wrong.

And there was something else bothering him; all those men who had committed suicide, what if Dean – ?

A sudden loud thump truncated that thought and catapulted Sam out of the shower, grabbing a towel as he slammed open the door to the main room. A dent in the wall immediately above the resting place of one of Dean's boots explained the thump, and Dean's face was a picture of concentration as he tried to toe the other off.

"Peace and quiet?" Sam reminded Dean with a snap.

Dean looked him up and down, all wide eyed innocence and mild affront. "Dude, no nasty shocks. Fragile, here."

With a low growl Sam wrapped the towel around his waist and went back into the bathroom to finish off. There were times when he actually preferred his brother being stoic and mule headed. Taking some deep breaths, he put a tee and sweats on and hoped the painkillers had kicked in by now.

No such luck, but at least Dean was quiet, flicking randomly through channels on the TV while Sam settled himself at the laptop to write up Jacob's case. He needed to broach the topic that had been bothering him, but wasn't sure how to go about it without triggering Dean's defenses. After a while he said "I don't get why the suicides."

"Jake made them all face every bad thing they'd ever done," Dean said. "There were probably some guys that didn't suicide, but come on, how many guys would admit they'd been beaten up by a ghost? And it would explain why the door to the basement was hidden, maybe it was even blocked up at some point by some scared fella."

Sam stared hard at Dean who shifted uncomfortably on the bed, and decided to come right out with it. In this context, perhaps the words wouldn't sound as bad. "Are you feeling suicidal?" he asked suddenly, knowing well that his brother was no saint.

Rolling his eyes with a short hard laugh Dean shook his head tiredly. "No, Sammy, not me. I'm going to hell soon enough, no need to go express."

"I'm sorry, Dean, I had to ask." Sam shrugged, feeling inexplicably guilty for needing to ask. "I just – look, some of those men quite frankly did hardly anything, I mean all Don Taylor was guilty of was adultery, which compared to y-, compared to some people is nothing."

Dean smirked humourlessly. "Whatever. I guess some people just aren't as well adjusted as me."

Sam opened his mouth to argue the point, but Dean's eyes fluttered closed, his head rolling gently to one side. Maybe his brother had finally succumbed to the painkillers, or maybe he was faking it.

Either way this conversation was done.

FIN


End file.
